


The Nordic Brew

by BennyBatch



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Asgard, Friends to Lovers, Iron Man 1, Jötunheimr | Jotunheim, Loki & Tony Stark Friendship, Loki (Marvel) Does What He Wants, Loki (Marvel) Feels, M/M, Miðgarðr | Midgard, Odin (Marvel)'s A+ Parenting, Pre-Iron Man 1, Pre-Thor (2011), The Ten Rings (Marvel), Tony Stark Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:35:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21800284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BennyBatch/pseuds/BennyBatch
Summary: Loki hadn’t expected his spell to work as well as it had. Heimdall couldn’t see him, and neither could Odin, a fact he very much exploited to his full advantage.Now, a year into his escapades throughout the Nine, Loki has formed a fast bond with Midgardian Tony Stark over the counter of The Nordic Brew, and that bond is stronger than any he has forged before. And perhaps, in the face of persistent trials and tribulations, their relationship can develop into something more.
Relationships: Loki/Tony Stark
Comments: 73
Kudos: 210





	1. Chapter 1

After numerous tests, Loki concludes that Odin was not, in fact, all-seeing.

When he first began traipsing along Yggdrasil’s branches he expected to be caught and reprimanded, perhaps even confined to his room for a length of time, or at the very least appraised with glances of disapproval before being dismissed as nothing more than a speck of dust on the Allfather’s boot, but evading his eye was far easier than he anticipated. Even Heimdall was ignorant of his escapades throughout the Nine.

He recalls that initial heady moment under the vine-covered veranda at the mouth of Alfheim’s most vibrant market as he observed clusters of Light Elves amble from stall to stall from beneath its chocolate leaves, surprised at his ability to breathe unfettered. He probed with his magic to be sure, but the spell held. Nothing probed back. No eyes found him; none even had an inkling that they needed to search. The sudden realization of what he accomplished had him slumped against the veranda’s wooden beam, heart fluttering in his throat, though he didn’t dare linger. He returned home, following along the path he had marked for himself along the branches, his step light and giddy.

Nearly a year passes before Odin sets down his fork and deigns to ask where exactly he’d been cavorting.

He simply smiles, disconcerting, and says a word or two about his various studies. His grin widens when all he receives is a disinterested hum and a turned eye. It is easy to lie, but he also gleans the Norns’ lesson for what it is – hubris blinds, and he would not fall folly to the same blunder. Only his mother seems to catch on, her gaze knowing and amused as she watches him from across the dining table, though she says nothing of it, not to him or Odin. For what reason, Loki couldn’t begin to guess, but he’s thankful for her silence amidst the clinking of cutlery and talks of the next hunt.

Eventually he looks down at the untouched plate before him, hands settling in his lap. “May I be excused, Father?”

He lifts his eyes and waits for Odin’s grunt of dismissal before pushing back from the table, sharing a glance with his mother. His lip quirks at her wink, but before he makes it two steps, Thor raises the leg of some beast in his direction, speaking around a mouthful of food, “You’re always running off to your books, brother. I expect—”

“I know what you expect, Thor,” he interjects, though he is quick to sweeten his tone. “I would not dare neglect to join your hunt on the morrow. You have my word.” He claps Thor on the shoulder, joining his jovial laughter. Unsurprisingly, not one of them notices the forced mirth behind it.

“Very well, Loki!” Thor all but shouts, “We depart from the stables at dawn.”

He says _we_ as if to imply it will only be the two of them, but Loki knows better. No doubt he will be forced to lag behind as Thor, Lady Sif and the Warriors Three go gallivanting into the forest, likely scaring off any of the smarter, more worthwhile prey.

“How could I forget,” he mumbles through a grin before bidding Odin and his mother good day.

“Enjoy your books, Loki,” Frigga says, and Loki’s grin shifts to something more genuine.

“I will, Mother.”

With a final nod, he turns to leave, coattails twirling in his wake, and as he approaches the guards wordlessly open the large gilded doors, bowing their heads in recognition of his title, if not respect. He winks at them, relishing how they tense, their eyes darting around to find the trick when there isn’t one, which is, in his humble opinion, the most amusing trick of them all. His laughter echoes through the halls while the doors close behind him, muffling the click of his boots on their marble floors.

His hands fall into an easy position behind his back as he starts toward his room and, every so often, a group of servants pass him by, only pausing to bow before scurrying off to deal with whatever task their overseer deemed of import. When the latest group disappears around the bend, Loki ducks into one of the recessed windows.

To a casual observer, it would appear that Asgard’s second prince was simply taking a moment to bask in the golden light filtering through his castle’s stained glass, cascading rainbows over his raven locks, but, in reality, he was no longer even there. The clone remained at the window, staring wistfully at the kingdom below, while he, under the cover of his perfected spell, slips through the castle unseen to steal into the Queen’s private garden. He knows just where to go, the path ingrained in his mind.

It’s in the far corner, hidden just behind a large flowering shrub – a rift between realms.

He wonders if Frigga intended for him to uncover it. She had hexed the shrub, after all; he could feel the delicate touch of her magic flowing through it, from the well water it draws through its roots to the tender pink petals cradled by its green leaves. It is the most stable route he’s found to Yggdrasil. The other lies between crags. He’d discovered it on one of his more daring adventures, but he’s come to the wise realization that careening a boat into a jagged cliffside sliver is more conspicuous than he cares to be. Truly, the garden is special. Safe, and sheltered. He also knows that the flowering shrub was cultivated for him, not Thor, for she made his name the whisper of dew in the early morning and the closing of petals at night.

Leaves flutter to the ground as the shrub appears to exhale, and Loki basks in the scent of ozone, almost crackling in its presence.

He presses deeper, shuddering at the cold radiating from its heart as darkness swallows him, though it soon gave way to a myriad of color as his feet settle on one of Asgard’s many broad branches. Gripping a nearby outgrowth, he admires the blues, purples, pinks, and greens twirling in the empty space between Yggdrasil’s gnarled twigs and branches, grinning as soft flashes denote the twinkling of far off stars, then he takes a careful step forward.

Although he no longer needs to raise his arms strictly for balance, he finds himself unable to resist that certain level of childish glee. His arms shoot out, and he marches on to the tune playing in his mind. Again, he has escaped; the spell yet holds. He laughs, bright and exuberant. His fingers brush against twigs and leaves as he walks only to pause at the first of his mother’s markers, woven into the very bark. It sparks against his fingertips. He sends back a flare of his own, watching as tiny spheres of white light crop up along the branch to illuminate the path leading toward Alfheim’s market square, though they fade as his hand drops away. Although the Elves’ penchant for leisure and decadence thrills him to the core, the markets are not his destination today.

He continues on, passing by the remaining markers untouched. He already knows where they go. The first leads to the royal forges of Svartalfheim, where Gungnir, Odin’s spear, was crafted, and the next lead to a secluded waterfall hidden in Vanaheim’s mountains.

He found his mother there, once, and she was just as surprised as he was. “Found my hideaway, have you?” she said, that secret smile of hers playing at her lips. He swallowed, unable to speak though his lips moved to try. She laughed and raised her arm to him. He came forward, sat, unresisting when her arm encircled him. “There are others, you know, other pathways to secret locations like this one.” Her eyes sparkled as she spoke, and Loki saw mischief there. “I wonder how long it would take you to find them all, my son.”

It took him two weeks to find them all. Most were inconsequential, having led him back to various locations on Asgard he’d already found for himself on foot, though a few were new. He left his mark in those locations. A shrub similar to that found in the garden, so his mother would know he’d been there. However, it was those paths without her mark that drew him in all the more, and it wasn’t long before he came across a path marked by Odin.

His mark was not like the others.

Rather than letting his magic be molded to fit Yggdrasil, simply as a marker for wayward travelers, he did the reverse, twisting branches and vines to make impassible what Loki could tell was once a broad, well-travelled branch. Well, not entirely impassible.

He would not leave a single path untrodden, and this one was no different, though the way was far more treacherous than any he had come across before. Branches snaked over one another, twisted and gnarled, often frozen and slick. No spell seemed to be able to melt ice, so he had to make do. Then his foot fell out. He plummeted, fingers barely managing to find purchase on a relatively dry patch of branch. He struggled to pull himself up and rolled over onto his back, breathing heavily as he questioned his own sanity before pushing himself back to his feet and continuing on. It was worse not knowing than to claim he retained any semblance of sanity. Eventually, he reached the branch’s tapering end. He jumped, suffocating on a lungful of frigid air as he landed harshly on an icy cave floor.

He clutched at his stuttering heart, pressing his back against the wall as he heaved.

He knew now why Odin sealed the path away – the branch led to Jotunheim.

It was forbidden for Asgardians to _be_ here, let alone travel here. Loki knew that if he was discovered the punishment would be severe, his status as a prince be damned.

Slowly, his breathing calmed enough that he could look around. The first thing he noticed was the white light filtering in through the mouth of the cave and he wrapped his arms around his chest as if to protect himself from its cold touch, but the cold was not as bitter as he anticipated it to be.

He peeled himself from the wall and trudged toward the cave’s mouth but paused when the light flashed off crystalline stalactites, stalagmites, and columns. Leaning closer, he noticed that the ice was a deep, twinkling blue, almost purple in its depth, and that the soft crackling he heard was the sound of water flowing through the center of the ice columns.

He trailed his finger down its side, fascinated to feel a gentle hum.

“Extraordinary,” he breathed, watching as his words condensed and slipped down the ice.

Perhaps Jotunheim was not so monstrous as he’d been taught to believe if their realm had something so magnificent as this.

Curiosity emboldened, he turned to peer out of the cave’s mouth, surprised to find himself holed up some distance up the side of a steep mountain, and, squinting into the distance, he is further surprised to spy a village shrouded in a white haze of blustering flurries. Houses lay pressed together, their silhouettes broken every so often by small, softly glowing windows. Fires must be roaring on the inside.

Despite the cold, the scene looked cozy, warm, even.

At that moment he wanted to walk down there, to get a closer look through one of those small windows. Would there be multiple fires burning in one house, or would there be one larger pyre burning in its heart? Would he see a mother cooking for her children, perhaps teasing or scolding them as they run too close to the fire? He wouldn’t know, not for a long while, because he felt the tingle of probing eyes against the edge of his shields. So, he returned to Asgard following that same treacherous path, though he was far more prepared for the ice now, and when he arrived back in the garden, no word of his potentially traitorous travels ever fell from his lips.

But now he passes the icy branch by, for the path he searches for is farther in, nestled where branches grow together about blot out the void’s swirling colors.

A whispered word is all it takes to call upon a spherical wisp of light to illuminate the enveloping darkness, although it’s merely a force of habit. His feet already know where to step, having long since memorized the way. They easily avoid the knots and vines that had tripped him in the past.

He reaches up a hand to steady himself as he crouches under an outcropping branch, his lip quirking when the path suddenly veers left.

He’s nearly there.

Pressing deeper, the environment grows darker and impossibly more still, as if a single harsh breath would shatter the branch he stands on, sending him hurtling into the void lying just outside Yggdrasil’s embrace. Another spell covers him in a shiver of green as he walks, shedding his usual leather for something more appropriate, and softer around the edges. The only thing he keeps are his boots. They’re similar enough to those he’s seen on that realm so as to not draw undue attention.

The branch twists again, then comes to its end, dipping into the abyss.

He pauses just before it to let his foot hang over the empty space. He tips forward and he falls.

The first thing he hears is the blaring of horns. Then, slowly, the grating drawl of shouting natives reaches his ears, followed by the croaks of the grey birds circling overhead. They dive and peck at unsuspecting passersby, food and trash alike. He breathes a smoggy sigh.

It is chaos, pure and unadulterated, and he loved it.

He steps out from the hidden alley to allow the throngs of New York City, one of Midgard’s paramount settlements, to meld around him, and then he, like everyone else, is but another face in the crowd. The same would not happen on Asgard. Guards would flank him, and if not directly by his side, they would dutifully follow behind to observe his, and his father’s subjects, every move lest a trick gets out of hand. But he is no prince here; he is no one. It’s refreshing, to say the least, and he’s long since come to appreciate the brusque nature of these short-lived mortals.

The crowd continues to drag him along, pulling him toward his destination, jostling him slightly, but they soon thin out, and it isn’t much longer before a grin steals across his face, having finally spotted the dark green façade of his favorite pet project: The Nordic Brew.

Located just off a quiet yet well-trafficked corner, his quaint café sits nestled between a neighborhood co-op and a small, privately-owned bookshop he often frequents on his visits here, if only to learn more about Midgardian culture through their impressively varied literature. He’s also been told his café resides in a prime location with enough foot traffic to remain afloat but cozy enough to draw in and retain local regulars, though there is only one regular Loki truly cares to retain.

His hand settles on the café’s brass knob while the other fishes a key from his pocket. He has only just slotted the key into the lock when fingers brush over the back of his shoulder.

He turns, grinning, to wave at the young bookshop owner, easily exchanging the various morning pleasantries mortals are so fond of before they both push open their respective store doors and step inside, the door slipping shut behind him. She’ll be in for his coffee within the hour.

Like the outside, the inside of The Nordic Brew is painted a deep pine, beautifully contrasting the antique brown herringbone floors, white crown molding, and gold accents pieces. The tables are small, intimate, and decorated with small succulents. There is also elevated seating against the long street-facing window if his patrons desire more table space. He finds that it is usually the students who occupy those seats. Families and young couples tend to congregate on the low couch and armchairs situated in the nook located toward the back of the café, where the smells of tea, coffee, and baked goods intermingle.

Also lined along the back wall are three stacked rows of recessed shelving, each carting five large canisters of various imported Midgardian loose-leaf teas organized top to bottom from black, to green, to white. While those blends sell well, the two canisters labelled ‘Mischief Maker’ sitting by the till are his most popular. He’s not entirely surprised by that, either, for in those canisters are two separate blends of dried leaves and flowers from Alfheim mixed into his bestselling Midgardian black and green teas, creating two blends so singularly unique to The Nordic Brew that mortals flock to his café to taste it. And when asked if he sells it by the bag, as he does with the Midgardian blends, he takes great pleasure in telling them no, relishing their disappointed groans and quips of “Well, I guess that means I have to come back!” He knows then that they will return, likely for the long-term, and he takes particular pride in that fact.

It is only when he steps around the till to pull his apron on over his head does he see that the back counter is filled with the promised delivery of various dozens of fresh baked goods, including scones, cookies, and even a pre-sliced cake.

He hums as he arranges them in his display case.

Once everything is in order, he flips The Nordic Brew’s sign from CLOSED to OPEN with a flick of magic to then wait behind the till for the telltale twinkling of an entering customer.

The morning rush is quieter than usual, leaving the café empty for some time, as it is now; not that he necessarily minds. It gives him more opportunity to keep an ear trained on the door’s bells.

His back is turned to replace a tea canister when he finally hears it –sudden bell chimes, screams, and camera shutters before the closing door muffles the chaos.

A slow grin spreads across his lips as he turns.

He tilts his head, taking a moment to appraise the two suited men stationed by the door before his gaze again settles on the dark-haired man approaching the counter. His smile widens, turning up the charm as he leans over the counter to address his most alluring regular.

“Tony Stark,” he begins, a thrill running up his spine at Tony’s answering smirk. “Will it be your usual today?”

“Oh, yes, Loki. I think it will be.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a long wait, chapter two is finally here!
> 
> Fill for my Tony Stark Bingo: card 3021 prompt - R5: Loki Odinson/Laufeyson

_One year ago_.

It seems late.

Tony shakes his wrist and checks his watch for the third time.

9:13 stares back at him—the slim needle ticks past the six.

Shit.

He uses the crook of his elbow to cover his eyes as he groans.

He can’t do this anymore, not for two more hours. He’s not even sure why Pepper insisted he come to this board meeting at all. It’s not as if they need his explicit approval, not with Obie there, and he, like his father, trusts the man to act in his and the company’s best interests, as he’s always done. Regardless, sitting here contemplating his role in the matter does little to help him pass the time, so he makes a quick decision.

“I’m headed out, J.”

“Sir—”

“Inform Miss Potts that I’m not skipping the meeting,” he says, waving his aviators at the nearest camera. “I just need some fuel since the two of you conspired to wake me up at some ungodly hour for a meeting I couldn’t care less about.” He unfolds the glasses and slides them over the bridge of his nose. “Which was very naughty of you, by the way.”

“I am as my creator made me.”

Tony snorts. “Yeah, guess you are, buddy.”

Jarvis falls silent after that, and Tony knows he won that small battle. Pepper would have attempted an override of protocol if she felt Tony was insincere in his promise to return in time, so he must have sounded convincing enough.

He opens the coat closet by the main doors and frowns as he peruses his options. He passes up a peacoat and two tailored blazers for a dark brown leather jacket, worn and scratched from years of wear. Sliding it over his arms, the leather is as plush as it’s ever been. Softer, even, from constant use. And it still smells like home.

There’s also a slight weight pulling at his right pocket, but his as hand smooths over the square shape nestled there, his brow unfurrows with the realization that he must have left his wallet overnight. Patting it, satisfied that he is as put together as he can be this early in the morning, he takes to the streets with a final wave to Jarvis’s camera.

Happy meets him on the ground floor and Tony shakes his head, lip quirking.

“Just can’t shake you, can I?” he asks, clapping Happy on his shoulder.

“‘Fraid not, boss.” Happy grins at him and Tony can’t help feeling fond. “Where we headed today?”

“Not sure yet. Wherever my feet take me. Likely to coffee.”

He smirks when he hears Happy mumble, “So it’s one of those days,” under his breath.

“You know it, buddy!”

He struts toward the automatic doors and doesn’t pause in his stride as he points at them with two fingers on each hand, conducting their movement as they slide apart. Stepping out onto the pavement, he twirls to wink at Happy, reveling in the exasperated look he gets in return as hordes of fashionably bundled up passersby scuttle by them, the majority carting unopened umbrellas. He looks up as soon as there is a break in traffic.

Its grey again. Though it’s due to incoming rain rather than smog this time, if the umbrellas are anything to go by. He pops his collar, shrouding his signature goatee, before stuffing his hands into his pockets and pulling his jacket tighter over his shoulders to ward off the chill in the air.

Then a tug.

He jerks, but it isn’t physical. It festers at the edge of his mind – an itch he can’t scratch. He stares wide-eyed down the street, then at Happy, who frowns at him as he pulls on his knit gloves, but his concern is the least of Tony’s worries as his feet move of their own accord. He hears scuffling behind him as Happy scrambles to keep up. He doesn’t stop. He turns this way and that, down cramped alleys, crowded streets, and through a park until he pauses on a quiet corner. It’s familiar, he thinks.

He looks to his left and—yes, that’s it.

Sat a few doors down from the corner is a building unique compared to those around it. Rather than the five stories of intricate stonework of its neighbors, this building’s ground floor is constructed entirely out of wood, giving it an almost European feel amidst the slapping concrete of New York City. It’s not what it used to be—an optometrist’s office, he recalls. He’d gotten glasses there before. Aviators, custom-made, gold plated and amber-tinted. Great quality, and the owner was nice, too. Didn’t kick up too much fuss when he walked in the door, kept mostly to himself and the antique glasses he shelved along the back wall.

There even used to be a large pair of red frames hanging from the molding in front of the quaint lattice windowpanes, marking the door.

Well, not anymore.

The frames are gone, and the lattice is now a dark walnut rather than the garish robin’s egg the old man loved so much. And the sign is different, too.

Lifting his gaze to the split-level molding, Tony notes that, although the script is still the same bold font, the letters are now gold instead of black, forming a gleaming contrast to the deep green of the building’s façade.

 _The Nordic Brew_ , it reads. A café then.

Cute, and only a little cliché if the owner does end up being of Nordic descent. But maybe it’s just a particular method of brewing he’s never heard of. Whatever it is, its coffee, which is good enough for him.

Happy eventually comes to a huffing stop beside him. Tony glances at him, smirking to find the man bent at the waist with his hands on his knees, then starts walking again, this time toward the café, Happy’s groan trailing behind him.

“T-Tony,” Happy wheezes, “Wait!”

“I don’t pay you to have me wait around, Happy,” he laughs over his shoulder.

He steps off the curb and holds up a hand to stop a slow oncoming car before jogging across the street, leaving Happy to catch up.

As he gets closer, the reflection of the buildings and sky gives way to the warm interior of the café. He can see a few café goers sitting at tables lined along the wall, each with a porcelain mug steaming before them, and a queue of two stands waiting at the counter as the solitary barista works on the other side. He narrows his eyes at the barista’s back, noticing first the long raven hair curling over their shoulders, then the green knot of an apron wrapped around the figure’s lithe waist. Finally, he catches a tantalizing glimpse of long fingers as they reach above the espresso machine to pull down one of the many silver tins lining the shelves.

Tony presses closer, his nose nearly touching the glass as the barista expertly juggles brewing tea and pouring a swirling latte, clearly etching some intricate design in the steamed milk.

Then the figure turns around, and Tony’s mouth dries up.

Although a glare on the window’s surface obscures the top of the man’s face, he can still pick out the delicate curve of the man’s lips as he smiles at the couple standing in wait. He swallows as the man slides their cups across the counter. Drinks now in hand, the chatting couple turn to leave, blocking his view. By the time he can see past their shoulders, the man has once again turned around, this time to wipe the back counter.

Tony frowns.

The door to his left jingles as the couple passes through, and he has to look away from the man to catch the door. He hears a surprised, “Oh, thank you,” so he smiles and nods in return before stepping inside himself, Happy now close behind.

It’s only when a rush of warm air greets him that he realizes how cold it actually was outside. It radiates off his leather. He also feels as though there should be music playing, the café is soundless save for a soft lull of tableside conversation, yet something seems to resonate with his every breath. Something deep and dark, warm. Wordlessly, he holds his arms out behind him until Happy slides the jacket free from his shoulders to hang it on a nearby coatrack. His eyes never once leave the man across the counter.

“Hap.”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Find us a table, will you.”

He doesn’t see Happy follow the line of his gaze, but he does hear the man stifle a knowing chuckle.

“Sure thing, Mr. Stark. You got my order?”

Tony waves him off, already halfway to the till. “Yeah, yeah. Genius, remember? Got it memorized.”

When he’s close enough, he smooths his fingers over the edge of the counter, taking a moment to eye the artfully stacked plate of pastries through its glass dome before his gaze again returns to the knot tied around the barista’s waist. He wonders if his fingers will fit around just as well before he mentally kicks himself. Thankfully, though, the man still hasn’t turned from his task, only moved on to wipe down the espresso machine.

A few fidgety moments pass before Tony steels himself.

He clears his throat.

The man turns his head and Tony’s breath catches when he’s confronted with the most startling green eyes he’s ever seen, practically glowing in their intensity. They suck him down into some fathomless place, and the itch from before is back. Then the man blinks, and the spell dissipates, though they both remain just as they are.

Tony has to blink hard to steady himself, gaze shifting to the counter. “Uh—”

“—you?”

“What?” Tony blinks again, mouth likely dangling open as he is caught by long eyelashes and a charming smirk, although when he _is_ able to refocus, the man hardly seems impressed by Tony’s staring.

He’s now turned fully, cleaning rag flicked over his shoulder as he cocks his hip against the counter. “I said—” _Oh, shit_. “—Can I help you?”

The low, dulcet tones of his accented voice send shivers rippling up Tony’s spine and suddenly his mouth is both far too dry and far too wet. “Uh, yeah, um…” he trails off, eyes darting across the counter, desperately searching for—

“The menu board is just there,” the man says, pointing to a small chalkboard leaning against the till, and fuck, if this doesn’t make him look uncool. “We have coffee, tea, and cakes. Select teas are mixed in house.”

“Right, uh, coffee.”

The barista arches a dark brow, waiting, and Tony, still lost in the glow of those green eyes, speaks without knowing what slips from his lips until the man responds in turn, saying, “Very well, I will bring that to your—”

“You come here often?”

Goddam—He could slap himself. Mouth 1, brain 0, yet again.

For the most part, despite being blatantly cut off, the man looks quite amused. “I would hope so,” he eventually says. “Seeing as I work here.”

“Alone?”

“Alone.”

“You must be pretty good for the owner to leave you on your own like that.”

“I am the owner.”

“You own – wow. Can I compliment your decorating skills?” He gestures to the light fixtures and the back shelves as he continues, “You really did a number on the place, and I mean that in the best way possible.” This earns him a smile, and Tony’s heart flutters. He can’t help but think the smile fits so well on the man’s face, as if it’s something he doesn’t give out so often; and it gentles him somehow, makes the cutting lines of his cheeks soft where raven locks brush against them.

“You got a name, green eyes?”

The man snorts, perhaps taken aback by his forwardness, but Tony is nothing if not forward. “You ask a lot of questions,” he says, and for a moment Tony thinks that’s the end of it, until – “Loki.”

 _Loki_.

He savors the way the name curls in his mind and wonders if it will feel just as sweet when it finally rolls off his tongue. Not one to waste time, he reaches his hand out. Sweat threatens to drip down his neck when Loki leaves it hanging too long, but then soft digits are sliding against his, and he squeezes, shaking Loki’s hand with a trademarked smirk. “Tony Stark. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Loki.”

If he expected recognition at the mention of his name, he doesn’t get it. Loki only hums.

“A pleasure, is it?”

 _God, is it_.

Tony is about to verbalize as much, but then Loki is speaking again, lips quirked. “Do you plan to hold up my queue much longer, Tony Stark?”

Tony startles and whirls to find a woman standing behind him. She stands with her arms crossed, her foot tapping a hole into the floor, though he knows she recognizes him when her foot freezes. He turns back to the man – _Loki_ , his mind whispers – and smirks, digging for his wallet. “Well, still gotta pay, don’t I?”

“No,” green eyes sparkle. “Consider it recompense for amusing me.”

The woman clears her throat, “Mr. Sta—"

“I’m flattered,” he announces, cutting her off. He knows her type all too well; it’s better to cut to the quick now rather than letting her attempt to draw him into some superfluous conversation about things she doesn’t truly care to know the answers to.

Loki’s brows draw together for a flash, gaze flicking from the woman and back to him as understanding blooms behind his expression. Tony offers a tight smile in return.

“You’re just there,” Loki says, nodding toward a subdued corner of the café, “with your companion, correct?”

Tony turns to see Happy sitting at a round table sat back from the large windows, today’s paper unfolded in front of him. When he notices Tony staring, he lifts two fingers, waving. “That’s right.”

“I’ll bring your drinks there, then.”

Hearing the soft dismissal in those words, Tony nods. “I look forward to it.” Flashing another signature smile that shrouds more anxiety than he cares to admit, Tony turns from the counter to join Happy at the table.

He pulls out the chair and plops onto it, his back now facing the counter. He folds his hands over the table, all while knowing full well that Happy is watching his every move over the top edge of his paper, and for an extended time, the only conversation between them is contemplative hums and the crinkled fumbling of difficult pages from Happy’s side of the table, arched brows and a bouncing leg on Tony’s.

Having seemingly had enough, Happy shoves his paper off to the side. “So,” he begins, but then a presence is by Tony’s side setting down two porcelain mugs, each with their own intricate runes and patterns swirled into a thin layer of smooth foam.

Grinning, he peers up at Loki.

“Apologies for the wait,” he says, and Tony snorts.

“Wait? What wait? That has to be about the fastest anyone’s ever gotten coffee in my hand.”

Loki smiles as Tony wraps his hand around the mug, their fingertips brushing over its handle.

“Well,” Loki purrs, “I do hope you enjoy it.”

“I’m sure I—” Just then, the doors open as a hoard of backpack-toting college students push their way inside, voices loud in the hushed café. “—will.”

Tony frowns, though he’s pleased when he sees a slight frown on Loki’s face as well. With a sigh and an exasperated glance in his direction, Loki turns to walk back behind the counter as the kids debate the merits of sitting by the window versus somewhere deeper in the café.

“Tony.”

“Yeah, Hap,” he says, distracted by Loki’s retreating backside.

“This isn’t my order.”

His head snaps over to look and sure enough, it isn’t a soy vanilla cappuccino. Far from it, if the dark color and lack of a hearty foam top is anything to go by. He looks down into his own mug, frowning as he takes a sip and sputtering when mint rather than caramel hits his tongue. He sets it down and puts his head in his hands, his face growing hotter as Happy laughs, his casual reassurances that they’ll “have better luck next time” doing nothing to assuage his embarrassment over being so tongue twisted to forget his own order.

They eventually finish their drinks, Happy still tittering despite Tony’s rolling eyes and hisses.

He doesn’t get to talk to Loki again.

It seems word spreads quickly when a certain celebrity is hiding within your walls. So, with one final glance in Loki’s direction, Tony pops his leather collar and slips through the door, Happy leading the way back to the penthouse. He’s upset he didn’t get to say goodbye, or to at least laugh off the mishap of giving the wrong order, but his next chance to redeem himself comes sooner than either of them expect when Tony returns the next day, and the day after that until the days pile into weeks into months – all for the chance to see Loki again.

He’s captivated.

Most days he lingers around the counter, chatting Loki up as he makes tea and plates his cakes. The barista never seems to mind his presence. He listens when Tony rambles on and on about a new project or acquisition, and he even asks questions when the mood strikes him, actively engaging in their discussions.

Some days, though, random days, he arrives to darkened doors. He would peer through the windows just to be sure, and he quickly learned not to be too disappointed when he found it completely void. It’s not as though Loki opens his doors just for him; the man has a life outside of the café—outside of him—even if Tony likes to think he doesn’t.

He has compiled what he considers to be proof that Loki does hold him in some special regard, for when he started arriving at 7 nearly every morning, the sun only just starting to spark against metal and glass, Loki would often be standing in wait for him, key slotted in the knob and that same soft smile he never shares with anyone else gracing his lips. Mornings like that are always quiet, as if a spell or glamour kept most of the passersby from entering the shop doors to leave the two of them alone, even though he knows that’s too fanciful to be true.

Then one day, on a morning just like the last, he arrives to empty steps.

He checks his watch again, the second hand ticking toward 7:10. He’s a bit late, perhaps, but not late enough for Loki not to even have propped the door. Eyeing the entrance, he notes that the lights on either side of the doorframe are lit, and he can see vague movement through the window when he steps closer, which must mean that Loki is here.

Frowning, he pushes on the door. He expects resistance, but the door opens without issue.

“Lo—” he pauses with a foot in the door. Loki is standing behind the counter organizing pastries, right where Tony expected to find him, but something is off. It isn’t until Loki turns around that he sees how his hair is now cropped just below his ear, no longer long enough to pull back into those loose buns he’d grown to appreciate over the course of their encounters. “—oh.”

Loki’s green eyes lock with his and Tony can see a faint flush steal over his cheeks. It seems to stem from embarrassment, Tony thinks, but he can’t be sure. In the months he’s known Loki, he’s never once seen the man anything other than cool and collected, not that Loki really has any reason to be embarrassed now. If anything, the cut suits him far better. It gives him a sort boyish charm tinged with underlying mischievousness, which is only heightened by his pink cheeks and tentative smile.

“I like the new style,” he offers.

Loki huffs, neutral, which is better than derisive, he supposes.

Tony steps farther into the shop, approaching the counter, and when he finally stops by Loki’s elbow, he takes a moment to trace over the shell of Loki’s ear with his eyes until he reaches the tapered ends of his dark hair. Loki’s fingers tug at them, not raising his head.

“Really, I do.”

“I appreciate that, Stark—”

“—Tony.”

He grins when Loki lifts his head to turn up his nose.

“Anthony.”

“Any reason you cut it off?”

Loki’s expression shutters, and Tony curses.

“No reason save for summer’s return,” Loki answers, then he turns to straighten the tea canisters and refill the espresso machine along the opposite wall, leaving Tony to frown at his back. He knows there’s a story there, and not a happy one either, but he also knows when to leave well enough alone. He’ll have an answer soon enough.

Perhaps today is that day, he thinks as his security team pushes back the gathering hoard of paparazzi and curious onlookers. One of his men reaches a hand out to push open the door. Bells jingle to the shouts of his name and camera shutters before it swings closed to muffle it all, leaving him to stare longingly at Loki’s backside.

He saunters in, hands loosely tucked in his pockets, smirk widening as Loki turns.

“Tony Stark,” the barista purrs, and God help him if that voice ever fails to make him shiver. “Will it be your usual today?”

“Yes, Loki, I think it will be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed a little parallel ending! Things are only just getting started, I wonder what will happen in the next chapter ;)


	3. Chapter 3

“You’re later than usual today.”

“Morning meeting,” Tony grunts.

“How exhilarating,” he replies, grinning at Tony’s snort as he slots the packed portafilter into the group. Tony’s ‘usual’ is a simple latte brewed the classic way, save for an extra shot of espresso and the barest hint of vanilla.

He plucks a turquoise mug from the rack hanging below the shelves, slides it under the spouts, and selects ‘double shot’, inhaling as the machine whirs to life. He waits to be sure the first drops of espresso trickle into the mug before bending to grab milk from the minifridge. As he pours it into the frothing pitcher, Tony rounds the corner to lean against the counter to his right.

Their elbows brush as Tony crosses his arms conversationally.

Loki still isn’t sure when they’d become this comfortable with one another.

In the past, the narrow counter divided them, a physical manifestation of their hesitance to open up to one another, but he would be remiss to say he wanted to return to those days. The intimacy felt…good. Yet, even with these thoughts roaming through his mind, no conversation seemed forthcoming; so, Loki lifts his head, brow quirked, but Tony’s next words have him biting back a wicked smile.

“There won’t be any mint this time, right?”

His smile breaks. “Still bitter about that, are we? I thought you liked my tricks,” he snickers at Tony’s answering shudder.

“Blugh, sure, when they aren’t directed at me!”

Loki hums with the hissing steam of the frother, not believing Tony for a moment as he sets the pitcher along the grate under the steam pipe to get hot. Then, unbeknownst to anyone save himself, he reaches out with his magic, caressing over Tony’s arm as it passes by to feel out the men still stationed by the door. His eyes widen imperceptibly when he senses weapons under their coats.

Gaze flicking to Tony, who’s bobbing his head to some beat playing in his head, he intones, “The men by the door…should I be jealous?”

“No need,” Tony smirks, honey eyes twinkling. “Those guys are here to give the two of us time. This place is well-known in certain circles as my most consistent haunt, you know.”

“Oh? And why would that be?”

It’s phrased like a question, and even though they both know the answer, Tony jokes, “I’ll give you one guess, green eyes.”

And, deadpanned, he replies, “The atmosphere.”

“That’s one word for it, I suppose,” Tony winks, perking when the automatic steamer kicks off.

Lifting the spout, Loki removes the pitcher and sets it aside. He runs a damp rag over the wand, and, pushing the wand down again, he pulses the steam, cleaning out the inside before the milk can settle in the tip. Then he grabs the mug of brewed espresso, splashes in just the right amount of vanilla, knocks the pitcher of steamed milk thrice against the counter, settling the foam, and pours in swirling arcs. Steam curls in the air as he etches the design. So focused on his task, he doesn’t notice Tony leaning over his shoulders until he whispers against his ear, “The world serpent, huh?”

Loki only freezes for a moment, but it’s long enough to distort the head of the snake before he thinks to set the pitcher aside. “You know of the world serpent?”

“Sure,” Tony shrugs as if it’s nothing and Loki’s heart pounds against his ribcage.

“I did some extra reading after looking up your namesake that day we met,” he continues. “Did you know you’re named after the god of mischief?”

Loki barks a sudden laugh, fingers fidgeting around the mug. “Yes, I knew that.”

Tony’s face falls, and Loki swallows.

“Yeah, I mean,” Tony continues, muttering, “I guess your parents would tell you who you’re named after, right?” He reaches up to scratch at the back of his neck. “Guess I thought I cracked the code? Well, not that it’s a code to crack. I just, uh—"

“You knew of my namesake,” Loki interrupts, curious but apprehensive, “and yet you waited all this time to broach the topic. Why?”

Tony shrugs again, grinning now as he carefully takes his mug out of Loki’s fretting hand. “I had too many other things I wanted to talk to you about.”

Interests, he means.

That’s all they ever talk about, really. What the other is interested in doing whenever they have free time.

For Tony, that is tinkering, inventing, testing new products, and innovating. He rarely ever shies away from Loki’s questions, so open and honest in his answers that Loki envies him. And, in part, perhaps that is why Loki was harder to crack.

He only lets small details slip, not wanting to draw undue attention by mentioning things relating to him, Odin, or Asgard. Even under his perfected spell, he could not remain unseen for long if he uttered even a single word of Asgard here on Midgard. Odin may not be all-seeing, but, with Heimdall’s aid, he could be all-hearing. Even so, it’s difficult to shirk Tony’s incessant questioning, so eventually he’d revealed that he likes to read, or, more honestly, that he relishes it. He then explained that his desire for the written word, for the knowledge that those tomes pass on from ages past, is his singular yearning. The “outside of magical studies” was, at that time, left unsaid.

And Tony listened.

Once a week, Tony would bring him a new book from his collection.

“I could buy them for you,” Tony had told him, “but then how would I keep you coming back for more?”

“You keep coming to me, Stark.”

“Hey, that’s Tony to you, and hush up. I’m trying to flirt with you.”

Tony smirked at him, and Loki laughed, “My apologies. Carry on, then, tell me of this new book.”

And saying that, Tony would get this gleam in his eyes, a spark of passion Loki only sees when Tony speaks of something he admires or is deeply invested in; and getting Loki to read new books apparently fit that category.

“Anyway”—Tony cuts through his musings, slurping his latte and now, somehow, perched atop the counter—"Speaking of things I want to talk to you about,” he pauses and Loki waits, brow quirked. “I was wondering – or, rather, uh, hoping you might want to come over tonight. I’m headed out of town this weekend, probably won’t be back in here for a little while, so…”

Tony trails off, tapping his fingers against the porcelain mug.

Rather than answering immediately, Loki turns to remove the portafilter from the group head. He smacks the handle against the side of the bin to remove the used grounds, watching as the soft, rounded brick cracks, but doesn’t completely crumble as it joins the others. Then, as he runs the group head under water, he replies, “I would love to, Anthony—”

In his peripheral vision, he can see how Tony puffs up, hopeful and excited, and how he deflates again when Loki denies him.

“—But I have a previous engagement.”

“Not with another guy, I hope.”

Loki huffs, lips tugging up in a smile. “Yes, in a way. My brother.”

“You have a brother? Wait,” Tony holds up a finger. “Let me guess. Thor, amiright?”

Loki’s smile doesn’t disappear, but it does lose some of its brightness as he answers, “Golden locks and all.”

Perhaps sensing his unease, Tony sips at his latte, giving them both a moment to recompose.

“What’re you guys gunna do?” he eventually asks.

“He wants me to join him on a hunt.”

“What?” Tony blinks at him. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you cut a striking figure”—he smirks as Loki snorts—“but you don’t really look like the kind’a guy that enjoys stomping through brambles and muck chasing after some deer or oversized bird. You’re too refined for that.”

“My, my, what a compliment.”

“Only the best for you, Lokes,” Tony winks, and Loki rolls his eyes, amused.

“It isn’t entirely unpleasant,” he admits, returning to the topic at hand. “Though my pleasure derives more from riding my steed than the hunt itself.”

“And horses, too. Definitely refined. You come from money, hotshot?”

“I’m a prince, actually.”

“Y’know what? I almost believe that,” Tony laughs. He then bows his head, staring into the half-drunk, deformed swirl of the latte snake’s frothy tail. “Sure you can’t come over?” he murmurs.

Loki isn’t sure what it is, but something in Tony’s tone causes him pause. He looks the man over, scrutinizing. Tony appears to him as he always does, put together, immaculate, and yet the tightness around his mouth is more pronounced, as if he is trying to hold back a frown, or perhaps even a confession of some sort.

“Tony,” he begins, “I…”—Tony’s shoulders slump, already accepting Loki’s refusal before one can even leave his lips. Loki couldn’t have that—“I can stop by for a little while.”

“Really?” Tony blurts.

Loki’s lips quirk and his heart flutters. “Aye, just let me finish for the day I will join you for a spell.”

It astounds him how much a small act can cause such a large smile to form on Tony’s face, and Loki basks in it.

“Still close at 3?” Tony asks.

“I do.”

“Then I’ll be waiting for you,” he says, and surprises them both by pecking Loki on the cheek as he hops off the counter. The gesture is far sweeter, far more intimate and sentimental than those quick, heated kisses they’d shared in the past, so Tony freezes, unsure as his face flames, but Loki just laughs and draws him in for something more, something deeper. A tease and a promise.

As he pulls back, he smirks at the dazed expression on Tony’s face.

“Do not be late, Anthony,” he purrs, and Tony flashes a dashing smile as pulls sunglasses from his pocket and pushes them over the bridge of his nose.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says with a salute of his mug. He carries it out, laughing off Loki’s amused protests and grabbing hands. “You know where to find it, sugar.”

_True enough_ , Loki thinks as Tony and his guards brave the camera filled streets. And if he whispers a subtle spell to make it harder for the cameras to keep Tony’s trail, no one is the wiser.

Glancing at the clock hanging above the door, he sighs.

10:37.

Four and a half more hours.

Inhaling, he stretches his arms above his head; exhaling, he returns to sequester himself behind the counter to wait out the rest of the day, his mind elsewhere as the first of many patrons enter and linger in the café.

***

It’s late when Loki leaves Tony’s penthouse, and wine-infused kisses stain his lips.

He traces his fingers over them as he meanders back toward the café.

Although they did not go much further than teasing touches, the hard press of Tony’s lips till tingles over his own, but only just. He’s sure Tony bit as hard as he thought appropriate for an informal evening; however, it did precious little against his Asgardian skin, which only served to amuse him and drive him to crave more.

He would need to tell Tony to bite harder next time.

_Next time_.

Loki grins at the thought.

Tony, with the rim of his whiskey tumbler rolling over his smirk, had promised him a next time.

With a thrill shivering up his spine, Loki recalls how he tried to pry details from those curling lips and how they remained fast. Of course, that didn’t stop him from attempting other, more persuasive methods, and he welcomed the taste of cream and smoke as he pressed his body close, his knees splayed over the Midgardian’s lap.

Now, as his tongue darts out to chase the memory, he sputters a bark of tipsy laughter. It echoes down the dark alley, and he has to place a hand on the crumbling brick lining his path to steady his feet.

Despite his best efforts, he never did get an answer; but, in truth, he can’t bring himself to care, and as he presses along the brick to slip onto Yggdrasil’s branches, he admits that, perhaps for the first time, his lack of insight thrills him to his core. So much so that he is still grinning by the time he falls from Asgard’s branch to land softly behind the flowering shrubs lining his mother’s garden.

He heaves a sigh as he is greeted by the setting sun.

The twilight provides excellent cover, which is itself a small blessing considering his extended stay on Midgard.

Shaking the alcohol from his limbs, he steps through the shrubs only for his apron strings to catch on a wayward branch. As soon as he tugs them free, he realizes his mistake. The branch pings off his strings, ricocheting something fierce and startling nesting birds from their slumber. Like an alarm, they squawk their frustrations at him, beating their wings against the leaves. He ignores them and hurriedly pushes through the rest of the way, stumbling onto the stone path lining the other side.

He glares over his shoulder at the offending creatures before righting himself.

It is as he is brushing away the leaves and twigs clinging to his clothes that he hears it—hurried footsteps and voices.

Cursing under his breath, he quickly casts a spell to replace his Midgardian attire with soft Asgardian leathers before whirling around to kneel by the flowers, pretending to tend to them as whoever it is that heard his fumble rounds the corner.

The silence that follows tells him that they’re surprised to see him there, but even he is shocked when his mother calls out, “Loki?”

His head jerks up to look at her, tensing when he sees Odin at her side.

“Are you alright? Your father and I…” she trails off, her gaze slipping to the shrubs just behind him. Her eyes widen a moment before they settle back into quiet understanding, giving him enough of a pause to reassure her.

“Yes, Mother, I am quite alright,” he grins, pushing himself to his feet. Then, gesturing to his cape, he continues, “I was caught as I tended to the plants, and freeing myself startled the birds.”

“We have gardeners for that purpose, Loki,” his father intones, and Loki works his jaw.

“I only sought to occupy my mind, Father. The night wears long.”

“Would it not behoove you, then, to take this night to prepare for the morning’s hunt?”

Loki forces his face to remain impassive even though all he wants to do is grit his teeth.

“Of course, you’re right, Father,” he says, but Odin continues as if he hadn’t spoken, guiding Frigga down the path toward the palace steps.

“The hunting party has gathered in the dining hall, join them.”

With that parting command, his parents pass into the recesses of the palace. Guards close the large wooden doors behind them, and the resounding thud echoes through the now silent garden.

Loki clenches his fists, his nails digging into his palm as he turns his eyes to the stars above. A meteor bounces across their atmosphere, skittering a flashing blue. When the light fades, he closes his eyes, draws in a deep breath through his nose, and opens them again as he exhales, his stomach growling.

He will do as his father asks if only to procure a small selection of fruits to satiate his hunger, nothing more.

Releasing his harsh grip, Loki heads inside.

None of the guards bother him. In fact, they take extra care to make his way easier. They open doors before he reaches them, and they bow as he passes by, silent all the while. It’s a relief that vanishes as soon as he stops just shy of the entrance to the dining hall.

Leaning against the wooden doorframe, he can clearly hear the conversation booming in the adjacent room, however slurred from drink it may be, when Fandral interrupts the chatter with a sudden question, “And where is that brother of yours, Thor?”

“Loki?—”

“Bah!” Volstagg shouts. “What do you care of that mage, Fandral?”

Loki can picture his indifferent shrugs as Fandral replies, “I’m just curious is all. Don’t you wonder where he gets off to? You can’t tell me none of you have noticed how he disappears in the gardens.”

Silence meets this observation. Or, not silence, but blood pounding in the ears, whirring as it constricts his throat.

Those gardens are for the royal family alone; so, how? How could Fandral have seen him?

Loki swallows thickly.

“Loki has always visited the gardens, Fandral,” Thor eventually says, and for once Loki is grateful for his brother’s consistent ignorance of his affairs. “He has ever since we were but children. Mother practically raised him out there amidst the flowers.”

“And the dirt,” Volstagg chortles, and Thor joins his laughter as Volstagg drives in the stake. “It is no wonder he is _argr_.”

“Mind your tongue, Volstagg,” Thor demands, but his now stifled laughter betrays him.

Loki’s grits his teeth, nails digging into his palms, until he is shoved from behind.

He stumbles into the dining hall, whirling around to glare at Sif.

“My humblest apologies, your Highness,” she smiles, bowing deeply. “I could hardly see you standing there in the shadows of the door.”

“You insolent—”

“Loki! Brother, I am glad to see you. Join us!”

Loki scoffs and brushes the wrinkles from his tunic as Hogan and Volstagg cackle raucously around their tankards. “I am only here to gather a selection of meat and fruit. I will not burden you with my presence for much longer.”

Thor sprawls back in his chair, gesturing to the laden table. “Come now, Loki. One drink, at least.”

“No, Thor. I—”

“One. Drink,” his brother says, his voice firm and demanding, brokering no argument against the would-be king. The last thing he wishes to do is to drink what smells like muddled piss with Thor and his idiotic friends, but he knows when not to stand his ground. So again, Loki grits his teeth before plastering on an appeasing smile.

“I would be honored, brother, to join your table.”

Thor raises his glass with a hearty cheer. He gestures for Fandral to fetch another tankard of mead as Loki sits at one end of the long bench, his back facing the door, his eyes focused on the group before him as they again find their rhythm of conversation.

He barely glances up when Fandral sets his drink before him, although he does notice when the man takes a seat by his side, and Loki promptly ignores his attempt to exchange pleasantries. They may have had a shot at friendship in the past, and Loki had been hopeful, in fact, that they could have been, but, when it came down to it, Fandral chose Thor. Chose Thor over Loki every time—but now he has Tony. Loki can feel a grin threatening to break through his impassive façade at the mere thought of the Midgardian. Somehow, he manages to hide it. And it isn’t much longer before Thor and his friends finally lose themselves to drink, their words slurring as they sing warriors’ jigs and shovel food into their already full mouths, giving Loki ample opportunity to slip away unnoticed amidst the bombast.

When he reaches his room, he presses his back against the door, and his fingers come up to press against his lips; but it’s too late. The feeling of Tony is long gone, replaced by ale and fruits.

Sighing, he prepares for sleep. He knows a long, taxing day awaits him by morning’s first light, and he knows it’s wise to prepare both body and mind for such an endeavor.

As he drifts, he dreams of cream and smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, finally updating after...how many months? 😅 This pandemic situation has been pretty bad for my writing motivation, but my fire is beginning to ignite again! Hopefully it won't be over 4 months before I write another chapter this time xD
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's sticking with me! I appreciate it 💜

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope to have given you enough to come back for more ;)
> 
> I do not have a set schedule for when chapters will be posted as I will soon be starting a new job but I hope you all will remain patient with me!
> 
> Click my name to see other works I've done!


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